


All Interruptus and No Coitus

by HarbingerofWhimsy (WhimsicalCivet)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Challenge Response, Cullen's Ass, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Sneakery, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unsubtle Gwen is Unsubtle, interruptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:04:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalCivet/pseuds/HarbingerofWhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the Commander wanted to do was ravage Guinevere Trevelyan silly, but he's starting to believe the Maker Himself has put out a hit on his love life.  </p><p>In which all interruptus and no coitus makes the Commander a very angry boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Interruptus and No Coitus

**Author's Note:**

> From an 'emotions' challenge in a Cullenites group. My prompt was 'Impatience'. 
> 
> Takes place whenever in Gwen and Cullen's timeline.

Cullen considered himself a reasonable man. He was cautious not to be needy, and he did his best not to steal too much of Guinevere's time when she returned to Skyhold - no matter how much he missed her in her absence, or how empty their bed felt when she traveled and he was left behind beneath a mountain of paperwork. They stayed professional in public, confining their more romantic _interactions_ to moments alone - he made a mental note to get better locks for his office doors- and their shared evenings. He was determined to keep things appropriate.

But he drew the line when she was forced away over what amounted to ridiculous, meaningless _pageantry_.

He barely held back his scowl as Josephine arched a brow at him, her quill pausing over the parchment on her desk. "I assure you, Commander," she reminded him, "that while this may all seem a matter of form to you, it will be good for the people to see the Inquisitor out and about, even if there is no fighting to be done."

"Her time would be much better spent working with our soldiers if you're trying to lift morale," he growled. Their words held the flavor of an old argument, and he rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. It was one thing for her to be gone over something _important._ Rifts, dragons, and red templars he could understand. Going for a publicized hunt in Orlais with a bunch of mask-wearing sycophants who probably didn't know the right end of a bow from their arse was entirely different.

The knowing smile crossed the ambassador's face. "Ah," she said slyly. "I see. Are we certain it is _their_ morale that needs lifting, Commander?" His sputter of outrage went entirely unheeded. "She will be back with us in two days." Josephine returned to her papers, her elegant script flowing once more across the parchment. "Be patient, Cullen. Time will flow quickly enough."

* * *

 

While time could not, in fact, go by fast enough for him, the two days did eventually grind past. He was never without distraction thanks to the tedious busywork he normally put off and new recruits to train. He left his office and his paperwork in a rush when the horn sounded, the call stark and carrying in the cool mountain air. He hadn't been getting much work done anyway, numbers blurring together from too many late nights and not enough sleep these past few weeks. He never slept as well as he did when she was home, if only because she had a habit of appearing in front of his desk and dragging him away to their bed if he took too long.

Not that he fought her.

By the time the riders appeared on the bridge, dust hanging in a smoky cloud and leaving them coated in grey, he was already standing in the courtyard. He did his best not to fidget. Even covered in grit and with her hood pulled up, he'd recognize her anywhere. The relieved grin she flashed him had him returning one of his own, his body warming pleasantly and leaving him feeling light and effervescent.

He did his best to keep his stride calm in his approach, despite his desire to stalk over, tug her down from her horse and kiss her right there. He wasn't _entirely_ successful, a stiffness in his step that he couldn't quite hide. He'd been ill with withdrawal the few days before she left, so they hadn't even had the chance for a proper sendoff. He missed her skin, her lips— _her heat as he slid inside her, swallowing her gasp as he groaned_ —almost as much as he missed simply sleeping beside her, or picking her brain late at night when she sat opposite him at his desk. But he'd be lying if he said it was _sleep_ on his mind.

Her companions noticed his barely-contained eagerness, so they gave the two space. Even Dorian merely gave her a wave. Some comment he didn't quite hear about a bet passed between them before the mage drifted off to the Herald's Rest with the others.

The stable hands had already darted out to take the mounts. Cullen contented himself with standing beside Guinevere's horse as she slid down. He folded his hands to keep himself from reaching for her, no matter how much he wanted to. It was a lost cause when she turned on her heel and stepped in close, twining her arms around his waist. Heedless of his breastplate, she buried her face in his mantle, fingers twisting in his surcoat. "Missed you," she sighed happily.

He allowed himself a brief nuzzle at her hair, brushing his lips across her temple. Something eased inside of him with her here, broken pieces settling back into place. "That bad?"

She snorted, and the rush of hot breath across his throat had him flushing, his body instantly reminding him that three weeks was really rather too long and _they should remedy this immediately_. "My assigned guide did nothing but stare at my tits all week, and the conversation almost bored me to tears. I was ready to throw myself in front of a hunter and pretend to be a nug. At least they might have sent me home where I could just stay in bed with you."

He huffed in amusement, pulling away and offering an arm. She took it with great dignity, head tilted mockingly high in the nobles' fashion. "I believe something could be arranged by your Commander," he said, not bothering to hide the roughness in his voice. "To bed, I take it?"

"Maker, yes," she breathed. "As long as you're not busy."

He could hardly tell her he'd cleared his schedule in anticipation, so he settled for something more suggestive. "As one of your advisors, I would strongly suggest that you plan on doing nothing else today." He licked his lips at the thought, lowering his voice further to the dark rumble he knew would have her shivering. "Or this evening. One day would not be enough for the things I plan to do to you."

"Well," she purred as they started up the steps. Her voice was calm enough but she'd begun to drag him along as she quickened her stride. "I do so love it when I receive a _thorough_ update after an absence."

 _"Inquisitor!"_ They jerked to a halt in the entrance to the main hall, just in time for the flurry of gold-and-purple fabric that was Josephine to step in front of them. "I was hoping to catch you before you, ah, _disappeared._ "

"What is it, Josie?" Guinevere's voice was strained, and Cullen bit back a groan. It was just a _little_ farther. He wouldn't even need the bed at this point. He'd be happy to have her against the door or the wall - anything solid and out of sight would do.

"I am afraid we have a few things to go over concerning the hunt, and some letters that have arrived in your absence." Josephine at least had the good grace to sound apologetic. "It should not take long."

Guinevere's hand clenched, fingers tightening on Cullen's arm as he stared longingly at the door down at the end of the hall. He briefly considered sweeping Guinevere up and dodging around Josephine to make a run for it.

"Can't it wait?" he asked stiffly. No, it wouldn't work. Their ambassador was surprisingly quick in her heels, and he'd never get away with it. Besides, he had no idea how far she could throw that clipboard of hers. She could probably hit the back of his knees at a hundred paces, and then where would he be?

"I'm afraid not," Josephine said, already taking Guinevere's opposite arm and beginning to drag her away. "An hour or two at the most, and you will have your love back."

"Josie, I'm very tired," Guinevere objected desperately. If she was a horse, she'd have had her heels dug in, but resistance was futile before the unstoppable tide that was Josephine. "If we could just-"

"Two hours, Inquisitor. You have my word."

And then the two women disappeared down the hall and Cullen was left alone in the hall, very aroused and with an unfortunate fuck all he could do about it.

Varric, seated at his table before the fireplace where he'd been watching with great enjoyment, peered over his spectacles at Cullen. "Relax, Curly. Ruffles won't keep her too long. Then you can have your loud reunion and all will be right in the world."

"I suppose," he muttered.

* * *

 

It was not, despite Josephine’s assurances, two hours. Or even three.

It was _six_.

The sun had already gone down by the time the door to their room slammed open, the sound startling him awake where he'd fallen asleep on the couch. Paperwork fluttered to the floor as he jerked upright, crackling judgmentally under his feet when he stood. "Gwen?" he called hesitantly.

Her head appeared at the top of the stairs, her body following reluctantly behind. Exhaustion left her limbs visibly heavy, and she'd long since tugged her hair out of its usual braid. It now fell damp and slightly curling. She'd probably stopped at the baths for a quick rinse before coming up. "Andraste, I'm so sorry, Cullen," she groaned, already setting to work on removing her traveling clothes. The third time she fumbled with the buttons, he stepped in and nudged her hands aside to do it himself. Her head thumped gratefully against his shoulder.

"It was important, then?" he asked quietly, pushing her tunic off her shoulders and kneeling to start on her boots. She was obviously too tired for anything but sleep, and his plans of a long night spent buried inside her evaporated as soon as that became clear.

"If by 'important'," she mumbled, "you mean, 'incredibly irritating and time-consuming but otherwise not a huge issue and I wish they would all just crawl back into a hole', then _yes_."

That one took some putting together, and his brow furrowed before he figured it out. "Is he still causing you problems? I thought he'd been dealt with."

"Uncle Frederick and his lot, unfortunately, are known for neither common sense nor decency." She lifted a foot to step out of her boot as he tugged it off, doing the same with the other foot. With that taken care of, she shoved her trousers down her hips as he stood. The kiss she pressed to his lips was entirely unexpected, but far from unwelcome.

He drew in a slow breath, catching her lower lip between his for a brief moment. Desire surged through him and his hands jumped to her hips, grasping and greedy. Her lips parted to his tongue, allowing him to taste what he'd gone too long without. He couldn't help himself, sliding one hand down to grope at her arse and using the other hand to tilt her head back. She swayed under his assault, fingers scratching lazily at his hair, the back of his neck—a sharp contrast to his urgency and leaving him covered in goosebumps.

Maker's breath, he _needed_ her.

"Gwen," he breathed against her lips, letting his mouth slide down, heading for her pulse point. He’d already begun to roll his hips, grinding against her belly in his desperation. She hummed as her head tipped forward to rest against his shoulder once more, leaning into him.

A lot, actually.

He frowned against her throat, pausing the bite of his teeth. A swipe of his tongue confirmed her heartbeat rolling along slow and unchanged. He cleared his throat, sliding his arms around her waist to keep her upright. The added pressure without friction had him swallowing a whine. "Gwen?" he repeated hopefully.

"Hm," she said, barely moving. And she was, yes, she was _definitely_ letting all her weight fall against him as if he was the only thing keeping her standing.

"Are you falling asleep?"

There was a long silence before her reply came, sounding almost embarrassed. "...maybe."

He shook his head, sweeping her up into his arms. She didn't even protest, letting him carry her to bed without a word. She was half asleep in the few steps it took him before he settled her down onto the mattress, crawling into bed beside her after blowing out the candles and yanking off his own clothing. He shuddered as she scooted up against him, his cock twitching where it was trapped between their naked bodies.

"Tomorrow morning," she said with a yawn, completely unaware of his predicament. She buried her face in the pillows and tugged up the blankets. "Tomorrow morning, just us. I'll be fine then."

He slung an arm around her waist and stared at the back of her head while he mentally counted naked darkspawn jumping fences. _The dawn would come_ , as the song said, though he was certain they’d never intended it for a moment like this.

He could wait.

* * *

 

Except someone, the Maker perhaps, had apparently laid some sort of curse upon him. Instead of waking to the sun, or Guinevere lying naked and rested beside him, he woke to a pounding door.

_"Commander? Inquisitor?"_

Guinevere moaned, yanking the covers over her head. "Tell them to go away," she growled, and he could do nothing but agree. They'd shifted in the night, he onto his back with her curled against him. It left her in an interesting position as she burrowed down further to hide. Her skin slid hot against his, seeing as she hadn't bothered to pull away from him.

He jerked when her teeth scraped across his ribs. The sting was followed by the soothing warmth of her tongue as she made her way towards the crest of his hip bone: a spot that could turn him into a shuddering mess incapable of speech if she reached it before he sent away the person still knocking more and more urgently at the door.

"I won’t be able to tell them anything if you put your mouth there," he warned without heat, fisting one hand in the sheets. She paused at the slope of his abdomen, her lips barely touching his skin. "And you know it."

"Then let's just pretend we're not here," she suggested, nuzzling against his hip and making him shiver. "Or maybe the sounds will chase them away."

_"I... it's really quite urgent. Hello?"_

"You wouldn't-" his objection cut off into a sharp moan because yes, she _would_. She lapped at his hipbone before sealing her lips around it, giving it a gentle suck that had his back arching off the bed. She'd been delighted when she first discovered how sensitive he was there, and she went about her task now with an almost-physical sense of glee radiating from beneath the covers.

His hips had already begun to rock instinctively, desperate for something solid to grind against, to _bury himself inside._ She pulled back to blow lightly before latching on again, letting her teeth scrape this time. He swallowed a gasp, sweat beginning to slick his skin. It should have been embarrassing how quickly she was able to reduce him to this, how easily she played his body, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care. He didn't even hear the door open, nor the quiet steps as someone climbed up the stairs. All he could focus on was the draw of Guinevere's mouth— _finally!_ —and the heat that shot through him when her fingers slid over his thigh to brush _just there-_

"Oh!" Jim said. “The door was unlocked.”

Cullen's eyes snapped open.

_Him._

"Is this a bad time?" Jim asked nervously.

* * *

 

He was not happy as he stood at the war table.

Not happy at all.

Seething, in fact. Anyone with a modicum of self-preservation gave him a wide berth. They didn’t quite know _why_ he was so angry, but they understood that danger was here and it was currently wearing a red surcoat and a fuzzy mane.

He narrowed his eyes at the soldier standing across the table. The man swallowed, not meeting Cullen's eyes. It was a wise move.

"Another dragon," Cullen barked in disbelief.  

"Yes, Commander," the soldier said nervously, reaching up to tug at his collar. "I know the, ah, the last was, erm-"

"Killed," Guinevere supplied evenly. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed tight. "By me, as a matter of fact. I can confirm it."

"We are, ah, aware, but-"

"Is there any reason the men could not slay this beast themselves?" Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We have no experienced teams in the area for such a task," Leliana said, flicking a hand. The soldier bowed, not even fully upright before he turned to hurry away and probably provide a donation to the Chantry in thanks that he was still alive. He didn't even bother to shut the door in his understandable haste to escape the storm cloud that hung over Cullen’s head—a cloud composed almost entirely of sexual frustration. Leliana glanced at the map, drumming her fingers on the table. "It is not far. You could be back in a few days."

He gritted his teeth as Guinevere shook her head. "We only have a few anonymous reports," she insisted. "Are we really certain this is a threat that needs taking care of _now_?"

"It is _not_ ," Cullen snapped, bracing his arms against the table. "No doubt a few town drunkards stumbled into a bramble bush in the middle of the night and decided a dragon was a better explanation about what had torn their trousers."

Leliana frowned, glancing out the doors where they stood open. After a moment, she shook her head. "No, I am certain this is something worth investigating."

"If this dragon creates a nest," Josephine agreed hesitantly, "it will become much more difficult to deal with. I, too, believe this should be looked into sooner rather than later."

"And I advise against it," he said grimly. "I've no reports from any of my soldiers in Crestwood of _any_ dragon sightings. There are varghests, certainly, but nothing they can't handle themselves."

Guinevere chewed at her lower lip, eyes flicking between the three of them and back down at the map.

"I'm just not sure about this," she said slowly.

"I believe it is only the _polite_ thing to do," Leliana said innocently.

Cullen frowned, suddenly suspicious. The words seemed to startle Guinevere. Her eyes shot up, meeting Leliana's, and something unspoken passed between the two of them before Guinevere threw up her hands. He got the distinct feeling that a battle had just been fought and his lover had lost right in front of him.

"Fine!" she snapped. "I'll take care of it."

He stared at her in disbelief as Leliana smiled, just a touch smug. "I had hoped you would."

And of course, _of course,_  it was insisted she leave 'as soon as possible'. The runners were sent to pack the bags before the meeting in the war room was over. Guinevere disappeared in the hustle as preparations began but he managed to track her down to the stables where he cornered her.

She was fiddling with her saddle, checking over buckles and straps, and she didn't even bother to turn around when he stepped up behind her. She didn't reject the arm he slid around her waist once they were alone. "Cullen," she breathed.

"I know you, Gwen," he murmured, letting his stubble slide across her skin as he dropped a kiss to her neck just above the collar of her riding leathers. She smelled like vanilla, hot sand, smoke. He pressed her back against him, giving the slightest roll of his hips. Their interruption had done little to cool his ardor and he wasn't inclined to wait. "Would you care to tell me why you gave in so easily?"

She whimpered, dropping her head back against his shoulder to bare more of her throat to him as he suckled. "Does it matter now?" she gasped. "Cullen, we don't have ti-"

Feeling stubborn, he slid his hand up to cup one of her breasts, swiping a calloused thumb over the hardening tip through the fabric.

"Right," she breathed. "They can wait a little longer." She swiveled in his arms to crush her mouth to his. Not breaking the kiss, he lifted her up, her legs locking around his waist as he carried her towards the stairs he knew would lead them to the upper level of the stables.

"The hayloft?" she laughed, leaning down to latch onto his ear with her mouth, the sharp bite of her teeth making him stagger. "So close to where anyone could find us? Do you have something for voyeurism, Commander?"

He held her tighter against him, careful as he took the steps. "If we leave the stables, someone _will_ find us. This will at least give us some privacy."

"As long as no one wanders up here," she murmured, rolling her hips against him. She was already fiddling with the buckles of his armor. They had to be quick.

"Are you saying you'd rather not?" He tilted his head.

"Hardly."

But as soon as he reached the top step, it became apparent that it wasn't just the Maker who was laughing at him - it was Andraste, too, and maybe some of the Elven pantheon for good measure.

"Oh, you must be joking!" he snarled.

"What?" Guinevere twisted around, trying to get a better look over her shoulder.

"Occupied, I'm afraid," Blackwall said. He wasn't even trying to hide that he'd only just managed to pull his trousers back on. There was still straw in his hair.

"I don't suppose we could convince you to take a stroll?" Guinevere sighed.

"I'm afraid I need this space for a bit longer, Your Worship."

Cullen swore, whirling around to stomp back down the stairs as Guinevere threw a solemn salute over his shoulder.

Once they were gone, Josephine poked her head out from behind a hay bale and leveled a flustered stare at Blackwall. "I told you it was too public here."

* * *

 

Despite Cullen's best attempts, he was forced to let Guinevere mount up without anything more than a brief kiss, thanks to the small crowd that had gathered to see the group off. He passed her the reins once she was seated, forcing a strained smile. "Do try to come back quickly."

"The battle will be over so fast, Varric won't even include it in his stories," she promised, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder before clucking her tongue and putting her mount into motion.

"Catch up in a minute, Boss," Iron Bull called, his massive nuggalope grumbling as it was pulled to a stop on its creepy, fingered hands beside Cullen.

"What is it now?" Cullen sighed, rubbing at his temples.

"You know," the qunari rumbled, false curiosity lacing his words as he rubbed his chin. "It's been strange how things keep interrupting you guys. Like some bet gone wrong."

"I am _well aware_ , thank you," Cullen snapped in frustration, not pleased at yet another reminder of how poorly his efforts had been going. "Would you get to the point?"

"It's _almost_ like someone's doing it on purpose," Bull continued casually. "But hey, what do I know?" His clap to Cullen's shoulder almost staggered the poor, confused ex-Templar before the qunari dug his heels in and the nuggalope set off.

Cullen narrowed his eyes at the Iron Bull's back, mental wheels spinning. "Ridiculous," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. There was not some sort of _grand conspiracy_ going on. It would take far too many cogs in too many places for such a thing to to be true.

He glanced up. Jim waved at him from his post on the battlements, apparently none too scarred by the earlier intrusion.

But what if the scout had taken it so well because he'd been _instructed_ to?

"Impossible," he said firmly, ignoring the strange looks he got from the people around him. No one would do such a thing. It was just a string of bad luck.

Very bad luck.

* * *

 

A varghest hatchling.

A sodding, blighted, _Maker-cursed, fucking varghest hatchling_ , and the villagers just as bewildered. They'd not sent a letter about any dragon, so they said, and they were certain none of them had sent the anonymous reports.

Guinevere managed to convey her own growing frustration in her letter and her normally humorous words had been reduced to short, terse sentences. The strong stab of the quill at the end of, _'On my way back.'_ spoke volumes, as did the rather more blunt, _'Fucking varghests.'_

But even after all that, he wasn't quite ready to believe Iron Bull yet. It was absurd, too _evil_ to be true—what kind of villainous machination involved keeping him and Guinevere from, well...

But the final nail in his formerly cozy anti-conspiracy coffin—the one containing his sanity—occurred when he stepped away from his office for some fresh air and saw the tail end of Guinevere's riderless mount disappearing into the stables. The rest of her companions were already wandering down to the Herald's Rest, only just scooting by some important delegation loitering in the courtyard.

 _Someone_ had failed to sound the horn, meaning Cullen had never been alerted to her arrival back. Guinevere was nowhere in sight. No doubt she'd been pulled into the war room for an update.

Carl would pay dearly for his failure at the horn.

* * *

 

"There you are, Commander," Leliana said innocently. "We were about to send someone to look for you."

Cullen's gloves creaked as he clenched his hands on his sword hilt. Carl had confirmed only that _someone_ was pulling the strings behind the interruptions—someone with a decent skill at forging Cullen's handwriting and a knack for writing flowery notes that begged for Carl's cooperation in keeping the Inquisitor's arrival as quiet as possible.

He was going to need to have a discussion with his men about _contextual clues_. In what world would he ever give his surcoat and his bed sheets away? He wasn't sure he wanted to know what use Carl would have for those particular items.

All of the clues pointed to someone higher up in the Inquisition. His most obvious suspect was Leliana.

"Of course you were," he growled. “And I’m sure you had nothing to do with the delay.” Tension tightened every line of his body, but he wasn't ready to make his move. Not yet.

"Hey!" Guinevere waved her hand. "Can you two continue this later? I'd like to get out of here as quickly as possible."

"Of course, Inquisitor," Josephine said soothingly, throwing a look at Leliana, who simply shrugged.

Between Cullen and Guinevere, they managed to keep the meeting to just under an hour. Not difficult when her findings in Crestwood were so underwhelming.

Yes, there was a varghest. No, there was no dragon. No, no one had been killed. Yes, they killed the varghest. No, no one knew who'd sent the letters. Yes, Dorian had been there, but why did that matter, Leliana? Yes, they announced themselves. _No, they did not draw a wanted poster for a giant lizard and really, why are we still talking about this?_

"I believe we've covered everything," Cullen said tersely.

Guinevere's fingers brushed his under the table. She'd moved to his side during the meeting, and they both practically vibrated with anticipation.

She may have snuck a few gropes to his arse in, too, but he wasn't about to complain.

Leliana sighed at the window, tapping at her chin. "I suppose," she said. Her agreement was a shock, considering how long she'd worked to drag this out.

He'd thought to confront the spymaster here, but Guinevere's pleading glances were more than enough to distract him. He was achingly hard inside his trousers thanks to her covert touches and not so subtle body language that did its best to convey, in every way but words, her desire that he _please fuck her now._

He nodded to Leliana, pressing a hand to Guinevere's lower back to guide her along with him as he herded her out, leaving the two other women behind. As soon as the door shut, he turned and hefted her up. Her legs settled firmly around his waist, and after a brief pause for a hungry kiss that he couldn't resist, he strode firmly towards the door.

"They aren't out yet. Hurry," she whispered, rolling her hips, grinding herself along the insistent bulge in his trousers. There was enough heat radiating from between her legs that he could feel it through their clothing, making him hiss.

"If you want me to _hurry_ , then maybe you should stop trying to make me come right here in the open while I'm carrying you," he panted, groaning against her shoulder and picking up the pace.

"Call it incentive."

They managed the first door, Guinevere keeping a lookout over his shoulder. Her breath was hot in his ear. "Leliana just came out," she said urgently. "She's looking a little diabolical. Faster, my love."

"Blasted handles," he muttered, finally forcing open the second door without dropping his prize.

They stepped out into the hall, and did their best to look casual as they strolled towards the far door near the throne. It wasn't every day that the Commander wandered out of a war room meeting carrying a holy figure in his arms, so naturally, there were some odd looks. But running would have attracted even more notice and he wasn't about to let her go, so sauntering it was.

"We should have gone down to the wine cellar," she said absently. Her arms around his shoulders shifted as she waved someone off. "My holy powers of, _'Please fuck off_ ,' only do so much, Cullen. Who's Dorian waving at?"

As a masked man near the throne stepped up to block their path, the pieces fell into place.

A bet.

The flowery prose.

It had never been Leliana.

Dorian.

_It had been Dorian._

"Your Worship?" The man smiled behind his mask, his Orlesian accent curling the syllables together and filling Cullen with the amount of rage that only a man who was about to be interrupted again while sporting an erection would understand.

He couldn't even get to the _coitus_ of _coitus interruptus._

"Commander?" Leliana called. He whirled, unintentionally swinging Guinevere to face the Orlesian. He tried to set her down but her legs remained determinedly locked about his hips, so he attempted to turn it into a makeshift bow. It didn't quite work out and he just ended up in a strange sort of wobble, like a drinking bird with a clingy squirrel attached to it.

"Reginald," Guinevere greeted. "Lovely to see you again. I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment."

"How unfortunate. I was informed by a strapping young man that you were free today," the Orlesian cooed.

 _Tevinter bastard._ He was going to tear off Dorian’s finely-groomed mustache and shove it so far up his ass, he belched hair care products.

"I have some last minute reports for you to look over, Commander," Leliana said. "I really must insist."

"Then why didn't you tell me about this earlier?" he bit out. The conversation going on over his shoulder continued without him.

_"Reginald, I'm really not sure what you'd like me to do. I've already conveyed my apologies, but he really shouldn't have brought Francis to the hunt in the first place-"_

"I am afraid it slipped my mind," Leliana said, crossing her arms behind her back. "I am not perfect, Cullen. It is a small enough matter for you to take care of quickly."

_"-Healing well, but his fear of nugs is eternal-"_

He shook his head. "I've heard that a _lot_ the past few days."

_"-Couldn’t have predicted that the nuggalope would take such an interest in Francis, I assure you-"_

"I have taken the liberty of clearing your schedule and hers for the next three days." Leliana nodded. "You both deserve a break. But surely you could do me the favor of this one thing, Commander?"

He drummed his fingers on Guinevere's thigh. There had to be a catch somewhere. And yet: three _days_. Three days of nothing but he and Gwen. They could lock themselves in their room and not even leave the bed. He could touch, taste, break her down for hours at his leisure, and let her break him in return. And then... they could do it all over again.

_"-Was rather gentle for nuggalope mating behavior. And if Francis had been another nuggalope-"_

"We will conclude it as quickly as possible, and you'll owe me a favor," he warned, just as Guinevere's words registered. "Wait, what?"

Leliana didn't wait for him to change his mind, clearing her throat at Guinevere, who reluctantly unwound her legs from Cullen's waist and slid back down his body. She gave him a sympathetic look, rolling the tension from her shoulders and plastering a fake smile across her face before stepping around him to greet the Orlesian more appropriately.

And just like that, Cullen lost. _Again._ It was a wonder his internal cursing didn’t catch the Maker’s attention for a second time, for surely it was even louder than Andraste’s singing, and much more descriptive besides.

Just how much trouble would he be in if he stole Guinevere back and barricaded them in their room? It was an adequately defensible position, especially if he hacked up the stairs with his sword…

* * *

 

“I am terribly sorry, Commander. I must have been mistaken.”

He blinked at her, his frustration momentarily evaporating as disbelief set in. There was a ringing in his ears, and it had nothing to do with the midday bell tolling from the tower. “A mistake,” he repeated blankly.

Leliana gave a small shrug. “As I said, these things happen.” She shuffled her papers back into place, and Maker take him, she looked so _smug_. “I have nothing more for you, though I believe I saw the Inquisitor leaving for the courtyard. Reginald mentioned showing her swordsmanship to his son.”

His hands slammed down on the table in front of her, setting the ravens to shrieking. She barely blinked, entirely unphased by the furious man in front of her.

“You’re in on this, aren’t you?” he hissed.

“I am certain I have no idea what you’re talking about, Commander,” she replied, reclining back in her chair. “My focus is on the good of the Inquisition. If you see a benefit to be had by keeping you apart from her, I should like to hear it.”

He bit his tongue. It would have been pointless to argue with her. No doubt she’d simply twist his words around. And besides, she was at least _partially_ right. Dorian was the true source behind his frustrations, and he had no right to take it out on Leliana.

He straightened, clenching his hands on his sword hilt. “I expect the full three days,” he muttered.

“Of course, Commander.”

With that, he turned to leave. He’d had enough, and come the void or high water, he would not be interrupted again.

He had preparations to make.

* * *

 

He could see them there in the ring, easy blows being traded back and forth. Guinevere’s status as a knight enchanter meant she could more than hold her own when it came to swordsmanship. The skinny twig of a boy striking at her appeared puzzled that a mage deflected his blows so easily as she stepped and dodged. It might look showy to the gathered audience, but he knew her – she was bored, and her movements held none of their usual fire even as she stepped in to correct the boy’s stance.

His small surge of pride that she’d come so far with a blade was overwhelmed by other, baser instincts that had him heating as he strode towards the ring. Most of the crowd parted before him, and those that didn’t were shouldered aside to make a path. Jim, sitting atop the gate, leapt down and scrambled to shove it open for him.

Guinevere’s eyes caught his, her brow furrowing in confusion as Cullen stepped into the ring. He didn’t even pause. “The Inquisitor is needed for an important meeting,” he informed the boy curtly, plucking the practice sword from Guinevere’s hands – much to her amusement – and tossing it to Jim without looking. And that was rather a poor choice, because Jim wasn’t very good at catching and tipped himself over the fence in his attempt to grab the sword.

 _“I’m alright!_ ”

He was already leading her away when Reginald appeared from amongst the quietly tittering throng, huffing so hard Cullen thought his mask was about to waggle right off. “I must object, Commander. She was to be mine today, and my son’s training is-“

Cullen turned furiously, jerking Guinevere towards him and crushing his mouth to hers. She let out a startled gasp against his lips, stiffening for only a moment before she responded, twining her arms around his waist to fist her hands in his tunic as the crowd whistled and hooted. He didn’t even bother to hide his rumble of approval when her lips parted eagerly and her tongue slid to meet his, their breathing speeding up as the kiss became more passionate. Some dark part of him wondered just what would happen if he threw them both down right here and took her in front of everyone in the sand of the ring.

When he pulled away, Guinevere was flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses. He leveled his stare at Reginald, who’d begun to blush and had sheepishly dropped his eyes. “I see. My apologies, Commander.”

Cullen glanced at Guinevere, an unspoken question in his eyes. She gave a wicked little grin, and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Do you remember that story we read about the Avaar carrying away his love?”

Oh.

_Oh._

The hoots and whistles turned into a cheer when he bent to take Guinevere over his shoulder, heaving himself back upright once she was settled, and headed for the stairway. She shifted to wave at Reginald. “Have a wonderful day, Serah.”

“She has the best view in the house,” Dorian sighed as they passed.

Up the stairs, and he didn’t stop, even as she whispered chortled encouragements that sounded more appropriate for a horse than her lover. He marched straight through the hall, past a few amused loiterers, to the door that led to their room. It was there he stopped.

Krem tilted back in his chair where he sat beside the door, glancing up from his book. “Commander Cullen. Your Worship.”

“Krem,” Cullen greeted.

“No one’s gone up,” Krem said, licking his thumb to turn the page. “And I do believe that creaky step is ready to collapse just after the next _two_ people step over it. Very unfortunate, but there’ll be nothing we can do until it’s fixed a few days from now except pass food and drink over to the poor sods who end up stuck on the other side”

“And I take it you’re here to stand guard and ensure no others suffer the same fate?” Guinevere sounded amused down near Cullen’s hip.

“Well, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” The Charger smirked, going back to his book. “Any gratitude from a benefiting party could, of course, be paid in a few casks sent to the Herald’s Rest.” He kicked out a foot and nudged the door open, letting the two escape into the safety of the stairwell.

As soon as the door shut, there was a great creaking on the other side, wood dragging across stone as Varric’s voice filtered through the door, full of mock horror. “Did you hear that crash? Pretty sure that step just gave out.”

“Put your table here,” Krem replied loudly. “Best make sure no one else gets through until the repairs are finished.”

 _Andraste bless them_ , Cullen thought, taking the steps as quickly as possible, especially now that Guinevere had snuck greedy hands down to play with the hem of his trousers, worming cool fingers past the fabric to get at his skin. His eyes almost crossed when her hands delved lower to scrape lightly across his buttocks and he had to pause on one of the landings to regain his thoughts. It would all be for nothing if he pitched them over the railing now.

“Gwen,” he said, sounding strangled even to his own ears.

“It was right there,” she huffed. “You can’t really expect to hang me right in front of it without getting a feel in.”

“At least wait until we’re at the top,” he grunted, starting forward again. She ignored him, however, which wasn’t really that surprising. She never been shy about her minor obsession with that particular part of his anatomy, and she’d been showing an uncharacteristic amount of restraint the past few days. That bet of hers with Dorian lingered in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside for now.

No distractions.

By the time he reached the door to their room, she’d worked her fingers down further to brush against his balls and left him panting as she rubbed and stroked. As soon as they were inside, he dropped her onto her feet and turned to shove the door closed with a resounding _bang_. He snatched up the sturdy chair he’d left beside it earlier for just this moment and braced it against the door handle, twisting the lock. He was tempted to drag a bookshelf and the desk down there, too. Knowing his luck, an _actual_ dragon would attack Skyhold the minute he got into bed, but their room was made of stone. The others were on their own as far as he was concerned.

Once he turned back to Guinevere, he only had to take two steps before she met him halfway, their mouths crashing together. Need and urgency drove them into a near frenzy, their kiss all teeth and harsh breaths, the blood roaring in his ears. They stumbled together up the last few steps, losing their clothes along the way under impatient hands. He’d never been more pleased to have left behind his armor, its absence shortening the amount of time needed to strip significantly.

When her tunic refused to open as quickly as he’d have liked, he gave up and yanked the front apart. Buttons snapped, plunking across the floor as she hastily unhooked her breast band and tugged her braid loose. “Sorry,” he breathed, though he wasn’t, really—especially when he finally cupped her breasts in his callused hands, making her moan as he swiped his thumbs over the pebbled tips. His eyes closed at the sound, and the softness of her skin under his touch. _Too long_.

“Don’t be. You can buy me another one,” she said, nibbling along his collarbone and forcing his trousers and smalls down his hips at the same time, pausing just long enough to give his hard length an affectionate pump.

Something inside him snapped and he shoved her back onto the bed. Together they tore off the rest of her clothing and his boots before he crawled up onto the sheets beside her. For a moment, he was frozen in indecision. He wasn’t sure where to start, or what he wanted _most_ , his body pulled in multiple directions at once. The scent of her arousal had his nostrils flaring and his uncertainty vanished.

She yelped as he tugged her legs up to rest on his shoulders, sprawling flat on his belly between her legs. That yelp trailed off into a broken moan when he buried his face against her core without ceremony or hesitation. And _oh,_ how he had missed this taste: bitter and rich in equal measures, wetness flooding onto his tongue. He would never get enough of it. It stoked the fire inside him, and he hauled her body down the bed and closer to his eager mouth, closing his eyes in abandon.

Her fingers twisted in his hair, drawing him in as he lapped at her folds, seeking out her taste. He cracked his eyes open to watch her twist and writhe: always so alive under his mouth, his hands, and _his tongue_. His own hips rolled against the mattress, seeking temporary relief as his lips made their way down to her slit and the source of the honey that practically dripped from her, so very wet for him.

He groaned her name, reaching up to part her folds with his fingers as she keened, her nails scrabbling at his shoulders and the sheets when his nose brushed against her clit. He’d had a plan to drag this out: to pleasure her for hours with just his mouth and keep her on the edge for as long as he could. He slid one finger inside her, then two, curling them and searching for that soft, secret spot inside of her that would have her wailing. She was already fluttering around his fingers as he gave a measured lap of his tongue against her clit.

“How long have you been thinking about this? You’re soaked,” he wondered aloud, retreating momentarily for a few heavy breaths of his own, regaining his composure. His fingers kept moving: slick, wet sounds as he thrust inside her over and over again. Always a challenge to keep his control when he had her under his mouth, and weeks without her made it worse. He wanted to crawl inside her, wanted to swallow every breath she made and taste her broken syllables on his tongue as she came. He rolled his hips again at the thought, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her trembling thigh. The rough grind of his cock against the sheets had pleasure crawling up his spine, but it barely took the edge off.

“Too long,” Guinevere panted as she tugged at his hair, trying to force his mouth back to where she needed him. She whined when he resisted and nipped at her skin instead. She was slick with a fine sheen of sweat, glowing in the soft light emanating from the fireplace. She rocked her hips against his hand, practically begging him. “Been thinking of this ever since I left for the hunt in Orlais. Cullen, please!”

Well, he wasn’t much in the mood for teasing, anyway. And a good strategist was always willing to adjust his plans once on the field.

He blew his breath across her clit, curling his questing fingers again. She stiffened, body tightening. _Ah, there it was_. “Tell me what you want,” he said darkly, drawing his fingers back, dragging the moment out.

“Fuck,” Guinevere whimpered, bucking her hips, trying to grind herself against his hand. “Let me come already, Cullen!”

He sealed his mouth around her clit and sucked, thrusting his fingers once more deep inside her and pressing firmly against her inner walls. She broke under the assault, her back arching off the bed. His name tore from her lips as a fresh wave of wetness flowed across his tongue and spilled down his chin.

He was up like a shot before she’d even finished coming down from her high, his cock pressed hard and rigid against his belly as he crushed his lips to hers. Her tongue met his, slipping inside his mouth to taste herself with a whimper. He was rocking against her before he’d even entered her, mindless in his desire and unable to think long enough to align himself. The hot slide of his cock against her heat had him moaning brokenly, rutting helplessly as he reached up to brace himself against the bed frame.

Her legs came up around his hips, and then her fingers were there, catching his, altering the angle just enough that his next push sheathed his cock inside her.

They both moaned, the sound sharp in the quiet room and his toes curled into the sheets when he thrust again. She was _tight_ around him, so very good as he picked up the pace to something harder, faster. He hitched her higher, grinding against her at the end of each thrust just to hear those high keens spill from her throat. He’d made love to her countless times, but this… this was something else: something raw and animalistic.

She arched again and he became distracted by the bounce of her breasts, a distant thought that he’d neglected them penetrating the haze of his arousal. He set to remedying it immediately, swooping down to close his mouth around one of her nipples. Her moans became a sharp cry as he suckled hungrily, laving his tongue across her skin with each pull before switching to the other side.

“ _Maker’s breath, Cullen_.”

Her breast left his mouth with a wet _plop_ and he met her lips again, his jaw slack as his balls began to draw tight, the coil in his belly and the base of his spine starting to burn. Her fingers carded through his hair, scraping across his scalp and drawing a whine from him. He slid his hands beneath her, drawing her up against him as they arched together.

“What do you need?” he managed, the strain of holding back making him ache. His skin, his muscles burned, his end far too close. He slowed his pace, attempting to retain some modicum of control. When she tried to slide one leg higher, sweat making the movement slick and shaky, he seized upon the hint. He grasped at her thigh and shifted it up as she hissed, careful not to press too far.

With her body opened wider to him, the angle changed and her nails bit into his flexing back as he brushed against that spot with each thrust, making her wail. He was losing his rhythm, body stuttering, her breathless pleas of _“Harder, please, Cullen,”_ driving him on. He braced his feet against the bed to do as she asked, toes straining, and the movement shoved her further up the mattress. The room echoed with the slick slap of skin on skin. He slid his hand down, finding her clit and rubbing quick circles as best he could with his shaking fingers, determined to drag them both over the edge together.

Her back bowed as she came undone, clenching around him, her voice nothing but a hoarse scream of his name for the second time that night. It was all more than enough to send him after her. The coiled heat in his belly exploded outwards, ecstasy whiting out his vision. He buried his face against her throat, biting down against the straining tendons in her neck to muffle his own desperate cry of her name as he spilled himself inside her with a final few thrusts.

He sagged against her, releasing her leg, and the two of them sank into the mattress as they panted. He only just remembered to tip himself sideways so that he wasn’t crushing her beneath him, and the scent of sweat and musk hung heavy in the room.

Her fingers danced across his ribs and his eyes fluttered open— _when had he closed them?_ —to meet her pleased grin. Her hair was a tangled mess, her cheeks still flushed, red marks scattered across her skin from his mouth and the stubble on his jaw. There was no mistaking how thoroughly he’d taken her, and it stirred his pride. She leaned forward to press a tired kiss to his nose, sliding one leg between his to rest against his now-soft length. “And here I thought the lion title was just a metaphor,” she teased.

He swiped a hand apologetically over her hip where the pale skin had begun to darken in the shape of his hands: five lines for his five fingers. “Maker, don’t remind me,” he sighed. “Leliana and Josephine will have my hide for the way I acted.”

Her eyes flicked away, so quickly he almost didn’t notice. But then she began to blush. “Tell me what that bet was between you and Dorian,” he said, shifting to rest more comfortably against the pillows.

“Oh, it’s hardly anything worth mentioning,” she hedged, reaching up to stroke her fingers along his chest in a blatant attempt to distract him. She tweaked at one of his nipples, making him shiver. “Certainly not now that it’s over. Is that a picnic basket over on the desk? You really are prepared.”

“Over?” He arched a brow. She wasn’t getting away with it that easily.

“Yes. At the midday bell today, in fact. And I won.” She leaned in to kiss him. “So it’s nothing to worry about.”

He grunted, nipping at her lips. “You _will_ tell me eventually.”

“Are you going to _make_ me talk, Commander? Or do I have to convince you of my _innocence_?” She was walking those clever fingers of hers down his side, meandering towards his hip bone. He did his best to look stern and unaffected when he caught her hand, weaving their fingers together pointedly. She sighed theatrically. “It was nothing. Dorian just bet I couldn’t be polite to everyone I came across for a week. It was a lot of saying yes, and a lot of faking being interested. And I am now to be ten sovereigns richer.” She shot him a look. “Happy?”

“Ten sovereigns? That’s it?” That didn’t exactly fit his conspiracy theory, either. Had Dorian tried to make Gwen crack by keeping them apart? That seemed a lot of effort to go through for what amounted to a paltry sum to a man who spent so much on luxury.

“Pride goeth, my lion.”

“I suppose,” he said reluctantly, letting her roll him onto his back. He slid his hands up her body affectionately as she settled over him. “Already, Gwen? I’m not eighteen anymore, you know.”

The kiss she gave him was slow and lazy, her fingers working through his hair and toying with the curls that had begun to fight through the oils that kept them tamed. “I don’t mind taking my time.” She shifted to kiss his scar next. “I love you,” she murmured.

He rolled his head to catch her eye, his smile open and relaxed as his thoughts on the bet drifted away again.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

 

“Pay up.”

Bull sighed, but Dorian waggled his fingers, radiating smugness as the qunari gave in and handed the mage his sack of coins. “Really thought you’d be paying me this time.”

Dorian scoffed, added the bag to his growing pile after he’d counted out the coins. “I told you my plan was foolproof. You and the little people should never have doubted me. That was your first mistake.”

Bull braced his chin on his hand. “You still owe Guinevere,” he reminded, but Dorian waved him off.

“Ten sovereigns is a small price to pay compared to the money I’ve made on our delightful Commander. She will be paid in full, and none the wiser. Meanwhile, _I_ will be going shopping the next time we’re in Val Royeaux.”

“After paying me my share, I assume,” Leliana added, appearing at Bull’s side. He didn’t jump, not a bit. They’d trained that sort of shit out of him a long time ago. Dorian wasn’t so lucky though, and scattered the coins he’d been arranging into rows of five.

“You will get your half,” Dorian sniffed, sweeping the coins back into a pile to start again. “And I’ve already paid that poor lad who held off on blowing the horn. Though I must say, the varghest idea of yours was a stroke of genius. Ha! Dragon indeed.”

“It was a necessary falsehood,” Leliana admitted. “But word of the Commander’s display in the ring should spread, and I doubt the families causing trouble will push for their engagements. It was for the good of the Inquisition.”

Of course it was. The Orlesian nobles got a clear sign to back off on trying to marry in without having to endure a walk of shame after being rejected. Meanwhile, the Inquisition could stop worrying as much about a bunch of spoiled pricks trying to plot their downfall because the Inquisitor had sent their asses packing.

Dorian chortled. “And I’m sure your share of the winnings had nothing to do with it?”

“Well,” she admitted, tucking a strand of hair back. “I did see a lovely pair of beaded slippers the last time I was in Val Royeaux.”

“Then we shall go together!”

“Yeah,” Bull rumbled. “Meanwhile, I get to stay behind and keep Cullen from killing you when he finds out how many sovereigns changed hands over him carrying the Boss away in public so they could fuck.”

“You did warn him,” Dorian said, wagging a finger. “And don’t think I won’t remember you meddling. It’s hardly his fault if he assumed the bet was on Guinevere. Now.” He glanced at Leliana. “I’m thinking the emporium near the sweet shop. They have the most delightful oils available.”

Bull sighed.

Things were so much simpler under the Qun.


End file.
